Power the Dark Lord Knows Not
by bennybear
Summary: One shot. AU by both means and intentions. Featuring Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco. Special appearance by Severus Snape. It's too serious to be a parody.


Disclaimer:  
This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

...

Author's notes:  
#1 Except for the words of Trelawney's prophecy, the passages in Italics are no quotations. They are merely designed to sound as if they originated from a common type of fan fiction.  
I do not intend to diminish or ridicule anyone's work. I hereby apologise to any fan fiction author from whose story I may have accidentally and unwittingly quoted.  
#2 At one point, Ron and Hermione summarise a story that actually exists here on fanfiction net. It is one of my favourites, "Awakenings" by KatieBell70. I thank the author for her kind permission.  
#3 The text shown in the cover artwork is quoted from J.R. Rowling "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix".  
#4 Special thanks go to Gogol and TowerMage for beta reading.

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Power the Dark Lord Knows Not

Harry frowned at the sheet of paper in his hand, authentic paper, not parchment. After weeks of detention with Umbridge, he'd thought there could be nothing worse. But Snape had topped anything that ever was.

He tossed the paper on a small stack to his left. While he reached for the next one, he glanced at his friends. Hermione and Ron worked in grim silence, as they had all morning. There'd been only one short interruption: Ron had needed to throw up and had rushed out through a door that had materialised right on cue. After all, the room they were in was the Room of Requirement.

_The red-haired Gryffindor entangled his hands in the silky hair of the Slytherin. Their lips met-_ Harry dropped the paper on one of the stacks behind him, wondering if it had been one of these stories that had made Ron sick. Ron hadn't spoken a single word since his return from the lavatory, and neither Harry nor Hermione had dared to ask.

_The blonde slid a hand under the shirt of his Gryffindor lover. The redheaded boy inhaled sharp-_

Who came up with such crap? Paper and clips were Muggle-made, the printing was Muggle-style, and what these people wrote about magic was mostly nonsense. Sometimes, however, they got it as good as right. And anyway, how would Muggles ever know on which floor the Statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor stood, or who was teaching which subject at Hogwarts? How would they know about Hogwarts in the first place? It was all very mysterious. The biggest mystery was, of course, how Snape had come by this sort of... reading material. Judging from the height and width of the untidy heap that covered two thirds of the floor, there had to be thousands and thousands of weird love stories.

A rustle to his left made Harry look up. The tallest of Malfoy's stacks had tipped.

Their detention was Malfoy's fault. At any rate, that was how Harry chose to see the situation. Ron and Hermione had been out of the hospital wing for a total of five minutes when they and Harry had run into Malfoy. Glares had led to insults, and insults to four drawn wands – all in a matter of seconds. Unsurprisingly, Snape had chosen that precise moment to walk round the corner.

Only afterwards, it had occurred to Harry that Malfoy had been, quite unusually, without his bodyguards. Consequently, he was now also without them.

The git had better keep his head down and his mouth shut, Harry thought savagely. His heart still ached from the loss of Sirius, he was still furious with Dumbledore, and the words of the prophecy haunted him wherever he went. The task at hand did absolutely nothing to improve his mood.

_Hermione smiled at him. Harry pulled her into a tight embrace-_

Harry placed the paper on top of the by now medium-sized stack of stories describing love affairs between him and Hermione. Reading them – or rather skimming them because proper reading would take months – felt odd. He'd never thought of her that way.

The next piece was about Ron and Lavender. This combination was new, and Harry had to search for a hitherto unoccupied spot on the floor.

Hermione and Malfoy – absolutely unlikely, though the stack was getting rather high.

Hermione and Ron – not quite so unlikely. The height of the stack seemed to agree.

Hermione and Malfoy again.

Hermione and Parkinson. Merlin have mercy!

Dean and Seamus – silly, just silly.

He and Neville. Harry let out a sigh. Those authors clearly stopped for no one.

Hermione and Cormack McLaggen. Who was Cormack McLaggen? Harry racked his brain. There was a McLaggen in Gryffindor, wasn't there? Sixth year, perhaps, or seventh. He made room for yet another stack.

_Mary Sue had long, blonde hair that reached down to her waist. Her eyes were a light shade of brown, and long-lashed_... Harry was quite sure he'd never heard of any Hogwarts student called Mary Sue. He scanned the page to see who she was supposed to be in love with. _... her gaze fell on a tall boy with messy, black hair_. Oh great, that meant him. He wasn't exactly as tall as the writer might imagine, but _messy black hair_ was the catch phrase. Whoever wrote all that stuff was bizarrely obsessed with hair. At first, Harry had found it curious to refer to people by describing their hair. Soon, it had become boring. Now, he just thought it was annoying.

After taking a few steps towards Hermione so he didn't have to raise his voice, he said, "Do you know a Mary Sue?"

"No. Is a surname mentioned? Or family members?"

Harry turned the page in his hand, searching for some clue.

"It says here she was an _exchange student_," he told her, "from the United States of America."

"Oh, one of them... Put it here, Harry," Hermione said, indicating a small pile. "I've made a special section for fictional characters."

She had all her stacks neatly labelled. The sign on the biggest one read, "Harry P. & Draco M." Oh, blast.

"Fictional characters – that means people who don't exist, right?" Ron asked, joining them. "Here's something about one Francesca Snape. She is allegedly Snape's daughter and," he dropped his voice and added in an apologetic tone, "madly in love with Harry."

Harry shrugged. Many of these stories were absurd, if not downright insane. If Snape had indeed a daughter and she fell in love with Harry Potter, her father would most likely throw her off the highest tower of the castle.

Ron disposed of the approximately twenty pages of tiny printing.

As they walked back to their places, Ron asked, "You don't think Snape will let us out before we're done?"

"Probably not," Harry said. They had no other indication than the amount of provisions Snape had left them. The bags clearly contained lunch _and_ dinner.

"You know," Ron whispered, "I've found a pervy story about Fred and George. Can you imagine that?"

"I'd rather not... Was that when you had to go there?" Harry asked, pointing to the door of the lavatory.

"No." Ron looked suddenly more scared than angry.

"What else? You and me? Or," Harry made a minute gesture in Malfoy's direction, "you and _him_?"

"No, it was about you and Hermione, some time in the future. You were married; you had kids. You-Know-who came and killed you all. The children first, so you had to watch. He made sure to take his time-" Ron gulped.

"Steady, mate," Harry said, gripping Ron by both shoulders. "It's nothing but a horrid fantasy thought up by a sick brain."

"No, me snogging Malfoy is just a sick fantasy," Ron exclaimed. "_That_ might become real..."

Unfortunately, Ron's outburst had been too loud. Malfoy had heard.

"Oh yes?" came his drawl across the ocean of papers. "Sick, am I?"

"What's your problem, Malfoy?" Ron bellowed, going from frightened to furious in an instant.

"As if I would ever stoop to snogging you!" Malfoy yelled back, his voice strangely clipped.

Ron's hand, almost of its own accord, shot into his pocket. It came out empty, though. Snape hadn't been as reckless as not to confiscate their wands.

Malfoy answered Ron's futile move with a derisive snort, bent down, snatched one of his piles, and threw it in Ron's direction. "There!" he yelled. "Go on, satisfy your kinks!"

The loosely stacked pages didn't fly well and rained down in the middle of the room.

"Just great, Malfoy!" Harry snapped. "Now we can sort through a hundred pieces of this rubbish _again_!"

"Stop it!" Hermione cut across them. "All three of you! It is bad enough as it is without us fighting each other."

"Oh, are_ you_ in charge here?" Malfoy's drawl sounded slightly too forced to be convincing. "Professor Snape must have forgotten to mention it..."

"Shut up and go on working!" she told him firmly. "There is no need to prolong this task in any way, Malfoy. Or do you enjoy spending time with us?"

Her rejoinder actually left Malfoy speechless. He turned and started sorting papers again.

...

Warned by Ron's experience, Harry was twice as careful not to read too much. So far, he'd come across a number of disgusting ideas, that was true enough, but nothing had been as downright evil as the future scenario Ron had told him about.

The majority of the stories took quite another turn, anyway. Harry occasionally glimpsed lines saying that somebody took somebody else's member – though most writers wrote, quite rudely, _cock_ – into their mouth. Or there were suggestions to kiss parts of a girl's anatomy that he wouldn't know where to look for. His experience consisted of a few kisses shared with Cho. He had a hazy notion that, under different circumstances, some, just some, of the stories might be instructive or inspiring. If he wasn't in mourning, if there was no cruel prophecy echoing around in his head, he might give one or two things a second thought...

He and Ginny – the stack grew nicely.

Hermione and Ron – another frequent combination.

George and Angelina – well, why not?

Hannah Abbott and he – funny idea.

Ron and Cho. Indeed?

Ron and Parkinson. No mate, rather Cho than her...

He and Ron – another fairly large stack by now.

He and Malfoy, he and Malfoy... and, for a change, Malfoy and Harry Potter.

Harry was sure he liked girls. What made those writers think otherwise? Why did they think he might find Malfoy, of all people, attractive? Because _his silvery-blonde hair was shining in the light of the setting sun_? Good grief! He added the exceptionally large number of pages held together by several steel clips to the already sizeable heap.

Turning back, he glanced at Malfoy. Not at a Malfoy prancing in the golden sun, but at a Malfoy carefully folding down a corner of a little sheaf of papers. With a swift movement, the package went into – not atop – one of the piles.

What would Draco Malfoy find intriguing enough to set it aside for later reading? A heart-warming story about a whole family being tortured to death?

Harry, while working on, kept sneaking glances at him.

Hermione and Ron.

Ron and Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Justin and Neville.

Neville and Ginny.

Ginny and he.

He and Malfoy.

Malfoy and Hermione.

Hermione and Ron... It was like a crazy round dance.

Or did Malfoy have something else in mind? Like, for instance, smuggling out a particularly vulgar piece of writing and passing it on to the _Daily Prophet_?

Harry stared at the paper he'd picked up a second ago. _The black-haired Gryffindor moaned in pleasure as the two identically freckled boys sandwiched him_... He knew from sad experience that the editors of the _Prophet_ couldn't be bothered to check whether or not something was true. He was about to march over to Malfoy's corner in order to snatch the suspicious pages out of the stack – rather risk a fight with Malfoy than allow any of this baloney out of the room – when Ron announced that he was starving.

Startled by Ron's booming voice, Malfoy wheeled round.

Harry postponed his plan and followed Ron and Hermione to the rickety table where Snape had put their lunch bags. There were no chairs, though, so they sat down on three piles of convenient height.

They ate in silence.

Harry rather wished they could talk. Any topic would be fine as long as it took his mind off the embarrassing literature surrounding him, Sirius's death, and the bloody prophecy. _Either must die at the hand of the other..._ He let out a noisy breath.

"Yeah," said Ron as if prompted by Harry's sigh, "it's simply beyond me what Snape wished for when he opened _that_ version of the Room."

"Probably something entirely different," Hermione answered. "Did you notice the eerie mist that blurred everything for a moment? Just when he left?"

"I thought that was caused by those odd magical lights sputtering into action," Ron said.

Harry glanced at the lights that criss-crossed the ceiling. Odd they were, but they didn't strike him as very magical. They looked like ordinary fluorescent lamps, which was exactly what made them odd. Lamps like those belonged in Aunt Petunia's kitchen, not in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts.

"Maybe not," Hermione said slowly. "Maybe we experienced a Dimensional Shift. That might also explain the existence of, well, all these files."

"You know, when I first came in here I thought I saw rolls of parchment," Harry butted in, "several thousands of them. But now it's all paper."

"No, I meant the stories themselves, the content. According to a theory created by Muggle scientists, there is not only one universe but, in fact, an infinite number of universes, which exist in the same space at the same time. They form a multiverse. Every time we make a decision, another universe comes into being where we decide differently. This way, anything that can possibly happen will happen because the number of universes is unlimited and ever growing."

None of them had noticed Malfoy approaching.

"That is what Muggle scientists say?" he asked casually.

"Some of them," Hermione said curtly.

"One has to wonder why the Ministry insists on considering Muggles a sentient species," he drawled.

For once, Ron didn't respond to the provocation. Harry filled the vacancy. "Feel free to pick up your lunch, Malfoy. Don't let us detain you."

Malfoy unceremoniously grabbed the remaining bag, but then he turned to Hermione again. "You actually believe in imaginary universes where Malfoys marry Mudbloods?"

"Take that back," Ron hissed.

Malfoy glared at him.

Ron returned the hostile stare with interest. "Wands or no, Malfoy, you're still outnumbered three to one. Just in case you haven't noticed."

Hermione laid a soothing hand on Ron's arm before she got to her feet to address Malfoy, "No, I do not think there are universes where Malfoys marry Mudbloods because there is no such thing as a Mudblood. There are only Muggle-born witches and wizards. And yes, there might be incarnations of Draco Malfoy who choose to marry one of them. It's our choices that define us, and these choices may lie in the simplest things. If you hadn't chosen to insult Ron the very first time you met him, Harry might have accepted the offered handshake. Think about it; think carefully. Your future hinges on your choices, now and ever."

Malfoy had gone slightly pink. He walked away without another word.

"He never thinks for himself. He just does what his father tells him to do," Hermione murmured apologetically, sitting down again. "Perhaps now, with the man out of the way, he will start to use his own brain."

"Don't get your hopes up," Ron advised her.

"It's worth a try."

"Hermione," Harry said tentatively, "you really think there are universes where my parents weren't murdered, where Sirius is alive?"

"At least, nobody can prove that such universes do _not_ exist. The Muggles consider their own theory a highly speculative one, but _we_ might actually hold the key. Harry, you and I did once create a different reality. Remember what we did to save Sirius and Buckbeak two years ago? _How_ we did it?"

Harry nodded sadly. Back then, he had been able to save Sirius. Last week, however... He could yell at Dumbledore in frustration as much as he wanted, but the cruel truth remained – if he had not rushed head over heels to his god-father's rescue, Sirius might still be alive.

But what else could he have done? Nobody had bothered to tell him what was going on, and so he had walked straight into Voldemort's trap.

"I wish we'd had a time-turner at the Ministry..." he murmured miserably.

"Well, if you had carried one _before_ we went there, you could have tried to go back and repair the damage. Though I doubt that it would have worked," Hermione said. "You must not be seen. That's essential."

Harry didn't reply. He suspected her of trying to console him, and he didn't want consolation. He wanted to grieve for Sirius. It was the only thing he could still do for him.

He got up and went back to his work. It would be nice to be out of here before nightfall. Although, given the number of yet unsorted papers, there was little hope.

...

It was well into the afternoon, when he found a story about a boy with unkempt black hair who wasn't he. _Every time he saw Lily Evans his heartbeat accelerated to twice its normal rate_. This was about his parents! Despite himself, Harry sat down to read.

The tale was long and amazingly beautiful. James Potter was in love with Lily Evans and tried to court her. He was a bit clumsy about it and messed up every so often. His friends would laugh then, but their laughter was compassionate rather than unkind. They would help if help were needed. Sirius stole flowers from the greenhouses so James could present his Lily with them, and Remus composed a poem, which James sent to the girl of his heart on February the fourteenth. In the end, when James and Lily sat side by side under a tree near the lake – his arm around her shoulders and hers around his waist – Harry felt dangerously close to tears. He dearly wished his parents had come together in exactly this way and yet he knew that it couldn't be true. Not in _this_ universe, anyway; not after what he had seen in the Pensieve.

Why couldn't it be true? The Sirius in the story was so life-like, if slightly more cheerful than the one he had known. Then again, the story-Sirius was sixteen years old and did not know he would spend one third of his short life in Azkaban and die at the age of thirty-seven.

Harry fought the lump in his throat. Crying in clear view of Draco Malfoy was out of the question.

When he looked up, he was surprised to see the others reading, too. Ron and Hermione crouched very close to each other on the floor, apparently perusing the same story. Malfoy sat on a pile like Harry and was so immersed in his reading that he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he wasn't alone. Harry scrutinised the stack where the story with the folded down corner had been. It was gone. So, that was in all probability what Malfoy was reading.

Harry got up and reached for the next piece of paper, a story about Snape falling in love with Remus Lupin. Oh well, back to the usual crap...

Remus and Lucius Malfoy – would anyone believe that?

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Well, this could work.

Narcissa Malfoy and Snape. Oops, that reeked of trouble.

Snape and his Mum – no way!

His Mum and his Dad.

More stories about his parents followed, hundreds of them. The stack grew rapidly. Second came the pile of strange tales presenting Sirius and Remus as lovers.

Even stranger were the ones about Sirius and Snape. The notion of Sirius kissing his old nemesis seemed absolutely outlandish to Harry. Sirius wouldn't have beaten up Snape unless he was allowed to wear protective gloves for it. Harry remembered the scene, a year ago, when Professor Dumbledore had made the two men shake hands. Both had looked as if they'd rather touch a half-decayed dragon.

And now, Sirius was gone. Forever. Harry didn't care much with whom the Siriuses in other universes were in love – the Sirius in _his_ universe would never love again.

Had his godfather ever had a girlfriend? Back in school perhaps. Certainly not recently, being forced to hole up in the gloomy, old house. Tonks and Mrs Jones were the only witches in the Order who were around Sirius's age. It was so unfair...

Harry let out a sigh. All efforts to take his thoughts off the depressing subject were spoiled whenever he discovered another paper with Sirius's name on it. He felt a dangerous tension building up. He wasn't sure where it would lead – to a violent tantrum or a picture-perfect breakdown with crying and sobbing. The only thing that kept him steady was Malfoy's presence. He wasn't going to amuse the git.

Clamping his jaws tightly shut to keep from screaming, he worked on. After what seemed an eternity, the Sirius stories grew fewer. By then, Harry would find the occasional narrative about Alice Dearborn and Frank Longbottom or Luna's parents. Or loopy ideas like Peter Pettigrew proposing to Aunt Petunia.

...

Around dinnertime, a new variety of stories emerged. They featured Hogwarts teachers, especially Minerva McGonagall, being in love with either Albus Dumbledore or else Snape. Both seemed ridiculous. She was young enough to be Dumbledore's granddaughter and, on the other hand, old enough to be Snape's mother.

When Harry came across a piece of writing that described Professor Trelawney's pitiful attempts to win Snape's love, he was faced with an entirely new problem – there was no space left on the floor to start another pile.

"Ron?" he said somewhat hoarsely. He hadn't spoken in hours. "Do you already have something about Trelawney and Snape?"

"Yes," Ron said, shrugging. "Why?"

"Because I've run out of unused floor surface. Can I put the story on your stack?"

"Be my guest. It's somewhere here," Ron gestured vaguely towards the array of untidy paper hillocks behind him.

Harry moved cautiously between the piles. Some reached up to his chin and were at the brink of falling over.

"Which one is it?" he asked.

Ron pointed.

Harry crouched down. "No. That's about Sinistra and Snape."

"Then the next."

"That is about..." Harry squinted at the lines, "... about Dumbledore and Hagrid."

"Yeah. Some people's fantasies are just running amok," Ron said dryly, then added, "There! That's the right one!"

It was. Harry disposed of the story and straightened up. His gaze fell on the little signs propped up against Hermione's stacks. It would be nice to have such markers, too. Of course, Hermione was the only one who always carried ink, quill, and parchment in her pockets, so he went over to her to ask for help.

She shook her head. "I don't have that much parchment about me. But we could unite the stacks. That would save room as well." She half turned and called across the jumble of countless papers, "You can bring your files, too, Malfoy."

"Come and fetch them," Malfoy snorted. He had practically walled himself in. Being up to his chest in teetering piles, he seemed barely able to move.

A thought occurred to Harry. He made his way over to Malfoy's side.

"Don't strain yourself, Malfoy. Bothering a delicate person like you with manual labour would be thoroughly bad mannered. We can't have you collapse under the weight of a fistful of papers," he said offhandedly while he scanned the stacks for something with a folded down corner. No sooner had he spied the object of his curiosity, than he snatched the pile surrounding it and walked off with his prey.

While Hermione took the topmost paper and scanned it, he swiftly pulled the dog-eared story out and stuffed it under his robes. As an afterthought, he folded down the corners of some random pages and pushed them back into the stack.

"Him and Parkinson," Hermione said. "Fine. They deserve each other."

Malfoy appeared all of a sudden. He treated Harry to a look of pure venom, let a load of papers crash down next to the "R. Weasley & D. Malfoy" sign, and went to fetch more.

They were busy moving and re-stacking files for the next half-hour. In some cases, they had to arrange handy sheaves of papers like bricks in a wall to secure the huge stacks against tipping over.

Malfoy actually helped. Why he did, Harry realised when he spotted him wrenching something out of the "D. Malfoy & P. Parkinson" stack. A number of pages with folded down corners disappeared into Malfoy's robes.

...

Having finally assembled and properly labelled everything, they sat down to eat – Harry, Ron and Hermione near the table, and Malfoy at the other side of the room.

While Harry chewed his sandwiches, his eyes wandered to four stacks of approximately the same height. They were marked "H. Granger & R. Weasley", "H. Granger & H. Potter", "G. Weasley & H. Potter" and "G. Weasley & D. Malfoy".

"Do you think height equals probability?" he asked softly.

"I hope not," Hermione answered, regarding the tallest pile – stories about her and Malfoy.

"It's not the nonsense that worries me," Ron muttered. "I know I won't snog Malfoy, and that's settled. But some things might just be factual. Belonging to the universe we actually live in."

"We found a file about Ron's Mum and Malfoy's father," Hermione explained in hushed tones. "He tried to seduce her, and when that failed, he resorted to force. Ron's father stopped him in the very last moment."

"And Fabian and Gideon hexed him afterwards. The story says that's why Malfoy walks with a limp," Ron added. "You know, he does walk with a slight limp. He kind of covers it with that posh walking stick. And Dad hates him like poison."

The walking stick and the hatred between the two men were solid facts. Harry also thought he'd heard the names of Lucius's attackers before, but couldn't recall where or when.

"Who're Fabian and Gideon?" he asked.

"They were my Mum's brothers. Twins, like Fred and George. Murdered by Death Eaters."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled. The last thing he wanted to hear right now where reports about people being killed by that damned scum of the earth. "I'm going back to work. Would be nice to be out of here before midnight."

Ron and Hermione joined him.

"I wonder what's still there. We're through with every possible pairing, aren't we?" Ron said glumly, seizing a paper at random. His face whitened as he read. The paper dropped from his hand; Harry picked it up.

_The red-haired Gryffindor boy lost himself in the fathomless, dark eyes of the older man. The potion master leaned in and teasingly traced his tongue-_

"What does Snape think he's playing at?" Ron exclaimed loudly.

Malfoy shot from his seat in alarm.

"No Ron, please..." Hermione said urgently, reaching for Ron's arm. She pulled him closer to her, whispering something Harry couldn't hear. However, it served to calm Ron down.

...

They didn't only need a "R. Weasley & S. Snape" label. They needed one for all of them, including Malfoy. They needed labels for Snape and Neville as well as for Snape and each and every of Ron's siblings. Harry idly wondered whether they had finally hit rock bottom.

He got his answer when Malfoy, a greenish tinge on his face, carried over a small stack of papers. Without speaking a word, he took Hermione's quill and a small slip of parchment. His hands were visibly shaking while he wrote.

Once Malfoy had left, Harry bent down to decipher the tiny scribble: "D. Malfoy & L. Malfoy". He found little time to marvel about how freakish the idea of a sexual relationship between father and son was because soon he came across a story in which Vernon Dursley abused _him_. He tried to fight off the waves of nausea by repetitively telling himself that the bloody stories couldn't possibly get any worse.

They got worse.

Harry stared at the same two lines for minutes, unable to acknowledge their content. When realisation finally clicked in, he flung the paper aside with an angry snarl.

He'd had enough. It was a quarter to midnight, and they had been working since eight in the morning. What right did Snape have to make them work for sixteen hours? What right did the man have to make him read _such_ _bullshit_? None! Most definitely none!

Seething inwardly, he watched Hermione collecting the offensive story from the floor. She merely glanced at it and then closed her eyes as if in pain.

"That's horrible, Harry," she whispered. After a moment's thought, she added, "Perhaps you should have a break. Let Ron and me take care of these..." she trailed off, indicating the paper in her hand.

"Trying to be noble?" he spat. "There might be stories about _you_ and Voldemort."

To his surprise, she didn't flinch – neither at the name nor at the outrageous suggestion.

"You do need a break," she said, seemingly unperturbed. "Just sit down. And try to think of Quidditch."

"What's Quidditch got to do with it?"

"Nothing. That's why."

He gave a snort, turned, and stomped away. As if he would be able to dwell on Quidditch...

In a pathetic attempt to vent his pent-up emotions, he pounded one of the largest stacks with his fists. Hard. He didn't care whether Malfoy saw him.

Just how twisted had a universe to be to make a Harry Potter Voldemort's lover? How on earth would that work if neither could live while the other survived? Then again, they might have other prophecies in other universes...

He slumped down on a random pile. As he did so, paper rustled beneath his robes.

He heaved a sigh. Not all of these stories were disgusting. Perhaps reading the one about his parents again would serve to soothe him. With another sigh, he took the rather crumpled sheets of paper out.

_The weather was fine. Maybe he wouldn't need the scarf. He hated its colour. He knew he had a pale complexion and green made him look even paler_.

Harry paused. That couldn't be right. His gaze fell on the folded down corners. Bloody hell – the Malfoy story! He was about to put it back but curiosity got the better of him.

The tale was in large part remarkably consistent with reality. For instance, Malfoy's father was in Azkaban for the burglary at the Ministry. But other things were different. Malfoy was very close to Theodore Nott, much closer than to Crabbe or Goyle. Whether they were lovers or only best friends was a bit unclear. There were hugs and occasionally a chaste peck on the cheek, but none of the lascivious actions depicted in so many other stories. Malfoy confided in Nott a stunning amount of doubts and fears. He cried – literally – at Nott's shoulder when the Dark Lord requested a special service of him. What this service would be wasn't explained. It was merely hinted that Malfoy had a sure chance of dying in any attempt to carry it out. The story-Nott called the task _a death sentence in disguise_ – and suggested that they should approach the headmaster for help. Harry read on with baited breath. This story seemed in a dazzling way genuine, despite the fact that the Malfoy in it somewhat lacked arrogance. The story-Malfoy was, however, extremely reluctant to go to Dumbledore, so Nott went alone. Dumbledore listened-

"Hey, we're almost done." Ron nudged him. "Get moving, mate."

"Yeah, in a sec," Harry murmured, hardly raising his head. He wanted to finish the story; there was less than one page left. Unfortunately, the fluorescent lamps went out the very moment Hermione put the last file where it belonged.

The door swung open. Snape stood on the threshold, a dark, bat-like silhouette against the brightness of the hall beyond. Striding in, he said silkily, "Finished at last? Did you take pleasure in your detention? You certainly took your time."

Nobody said anything while Snape, holding his lit wand at eye-level, proceeded to inspect the long shelves that lined the walls. They were laden with neatly furled parchments.

Harry frowned at the one in his hands. It was a grocery bill dating from November 3rd, 1832. He managed to roll it up and get rid of it before Snape drew nearer.

"Well, Mr Malfoy," said Snape once he had completed his check, "I wasn't aware how much you enjoyed spending time with Gryffindors. Perhaps I should have provided opportunity sooner?"

Malfoy shivered as if he was cold. "May I leave now, sir?" he pleaded, his voice brittle.

"Certainly. Have your wand back."

Malfoy grabbed his wand and made a hasty exit.

Snape turned to Harry, Ron and Hermione. "I'm afraid it will again be wishful thinking on my part to hope this detention has taught you to adhere to school rules henceforth. Dismissed."

Wordlessly, they took the wands Snape held out to them and left.

...

None of them spoke until they reached the entrance to Gryffindor tower where they had to stir the Fat Lady from her slumber. Once the portrait had closed behind them, Ron couldn't hold back any longer.

"He doesn't have a clue what we really had to sort, does he?" he burst out.

"Hardly," Hermione said with a wry smile. "Or do you think he would allow you to read stories in which he kneels before Madam Rosmerta begging her to let him into her bed?"

Harry gratefully laughed at the sarcasm. His emotional overload needed an outlet; anything was welcome.

"Grocery bills!" Ron exclaimed, half groaning, half laughing. "They were all grocery bills!"

"There were also pay rolls and stock lists. I had, while Snape talked to Malfoy, a quick glance at the signs pinned to the shelves. They were all in my handwriting," Hermione said. "It's absolutely amazing! We saw a very rare and fantastic piece of magic today, that much is sure!"

However, even she was too tired to discuss the subtleties of the occurrence any further, and they said good night.

...

Harry woke at half past four in the morning, feeling hot and sweaty. He tried to recap the dream – something about dancing with Ginny – that had let to the distinct stickiness inside his pyjama trousers, but the details eluded him as he reached out for them.

He fumbled for his wand, cleaned up the mess with a muttered spell, and sank back onto his pillow.

Instead of sleep, he found the words of the prophecy haunting him again. They rang out in his mind like bells, re-arranging themselves in ever new patterns.

_ The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, _

_ Born to those who have defied him thrice,_

_ Born as the seventh month dies,_

_ The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches_

_ As the seventh month dies..._

What power? Love, as Dumbledore had hinted? If so, what kind of love?

Most of the stories he had seen yesterday linked love very closely to wet pyjama trousers. Most, but not all. The one about Malfoy and Nott had been a bit different. Or the one about his parents. On the other hand, it was reasonable to say the reports simply left off before any more intimate interaction ensued. This was unquestionably true for his parents or else he wouldn't exist. In case of Malfoy and Nott – well, who knew?

However, his love for Sirius had been different. He had loved Sirius, of this he was positive, yet he had never kissed him. He wasn't even sure he'd ever hugged him. And now, it was too late.

Other people's lives might be rather short as well. The danger was almost tangible now that Voldemort was out in the open.

Could the bastard indeed be defied by love? Perhaps not by love alone, but it might assist. Harry liked the thought. Why not actually _use_ the power Voldemort despised and, therefore, underestimated? Love was, according to Dumbledore, a terrible and wonderful force that the Ministry kept always locked up at the Department of Mysteries.

It was about time to set it free.

He got up. He gathered his wand, his clothes, a pen, the inkbottle, some parchment, and his Invisibility Cloak. He tiptoed out, crept down to the common room, and sat down at a table near a window. It was midsummer and the sun already fairly high in the sky.

"Mr Theodore Nott," he wrote, " have you noticed that one of your fellow Slytherins is having serious problems lately? There is trouble at home-"

He paused. Was he in earnest trying to play matchmaker? What made him think setting Malfoy up with Nott, whose Death Eater father had fought alongside Lucius Malfoy at the Ministry, would make a difference?

The only basis was that Malfoy had liked a story in which Nott did make a difference. He had liked it well enough to try and keep it. Perhaps reasons weren't particularly rational when it came to love. Love was about strong, deep emotions, not about logic. Maybe that was the very point. Maybe that was why the bureaucrats feared and Voldemort misjudged its power.

Harry pushed the doubts aside. He had nothing to lose in this endeavour. Although the chance of turning his old enemy into someone less biased and closed-minded was slender, it was worth a try. Hermione had said that, too.

"His so-called friends do little to help to him," he continued to write. "Your own situation is probably not so much different. Maybe you would both like to have someone to talk to."

Well, that should suffice. He couldn't think of anything more to write, anyway. He brooded for a while over the question how to sign and settled in the end for "A Perceptive Observer".

He folded the parchment, donned his Invisibility Cloak, and went to the Owlery. Thanks to the Cloak, Hedwig didn't see him employ a school owl.

...

At breakfast, Harry watched Nott studying the message. He could have sworn he saw the Slytherin boy blush. Had his lines touched a chord? Or was it annoyance that coloured Nott's face? Harry had to admit that he knew nothing about Theodore Nott besides the fact that the boy could see Thestrals.

...

During the following days, Harry did not only monitor Nott and Malfoy – who showed no activity that was out of the ordinary – but also paid close attention to people's behaviour in general.

The first thing he noticed was Hermione's hand lying on Ron's knee. He saw Anthony Goldstein ogle Mandy Brocklehurst. He also saw the dreamy expression on Parvati's face whenever Justin Finch-Fletchley was in the vicinity.

He wrote to Mandy as well as to Justin, hinting that there was someone who liked them. He wrote to Ernie McMillan about a forth-year Ravenclaw girl whose name he didn't know. He never revealed names, anyway, and invariably signed with "A Perceptive Observer".

He wrote letters telling Alicia Spinnet about Lee Jordan, Rhonda Highgate about Leticia Croydon and vice versa, Marcus Belby about Romilda Vane, and Crabbe about Millicent Bulstrode. At times, he was busy enough to forget Sirius.

Some of his messages seemed to have an effect. He spotted Justin and Parvati behind one of the greenhouses, lost in a kiss. Alicia and Lee walked hand in hand down the corridors. And – while the entire Slytherin table was gawping in bafflement – Crabbe clumsily presented Millicent with a little bucket of harebells. Crabbe's action was the pebble that triggered the avalanche.

Suddenly, Hogwarts was full of courting couples. Many of them consisted of people Harry had never written to. He watched in wonderment as the world changed around him. With each Hogwarts student choosing to allow love into their lives, the world drifted a tiny fraction further away from darkness and towards light.

Only the Slytherin table seemed mostly unaffected by the upsurge of tender emotions. It was as if Voldemort's return cast the deepest shadow there. Watching the Slytherins more closely, Harry saw the furtive glances directed towards the students of other houses. The timid, fleeting looks as well as the defiant stares and the open, angry glares all told the same silent tale.

The antagonists weren't Love and Hatred. The battle was between Love and Fear.

And fear had already taken deep roots in everybody's heart, including Harry's. No Slytherin student had found his or her way into Dumbledore's Army nor would it ever have occurred to Harry to invite one of them in. Worse, he'd probably refused to let any of them join if they'd wanted to. He reluctantly came to see the dangers that lay in such an attitude. If the Slytherins weren't given at least the chance to decide _against_ Voldemort, they might see no other option than to decide _for_ him.

...

Lost in thought, Harry toyed with his quill. Ron and Hermione had left half an hour ago for a nice little evening stroll around the grounds. They'd been at the same time relieved and concerned because he didn't wish to come along.

He'd told them it was all right. It was, actually, more than just all right. He felt happy for them. Plus, their friendship turned love actually helped him to accomplish the mission on which he had launched himself.

He was resolved to let as many students as possible – Slytherins included – participate in the force that repelled Voldemort. His love for Sirius had driven the bastard out of Harry's body. People's love for each other could help to drive him out of their world.

Endearing any Slytherin student to the rest of the school was a tough job, though. Despite the Sorting Hat's warning to put aside all their differences, nobody had ever considered socialising with Slytherins. In all likelihood, it was the same the other way round. The distrust ran deep.

Needless to say, Umbridge had made it worse. She'd skilfully fostered the existing preconceptions and hostilities, and used them for her own ends.

Still, the only means to overcome the gap between Slytherin house and the other ones were love and friendship, and Harry believed he had detected two people who might have the potential to bring about a change.

He wrote to Salome Fawcett, detailing in careful words how longingly a certain Slytherin chaser looked at her in secret. He pointed out that said boy hadn't been a member of the Inquisitorial Squad, and added, "Please, do not right away dismiss the possibility that a Slytherin can have honest motives. Do at least hear him out."

Then, he wrote to Vaisey. He'd asked around as to the boy's given name, but to no avail. So, Harry addressed him politely as Mr Vaisey.

"Mr Vaisey, although you try hard to keep your affection for a certain Ravenclaw girl a secret, a perceptive observer can notice. Here is a piece of advice from someone who sympathises with your secret hopes and desires. If you wish to win the girl's heart, you'll have to choose the right side in the oncoming war. Choose love over fear, hatred, and murder. Yours sincerely, A Perceptive Observer."

He rolled the little parchments up and went to the Owlery. There was no time to waste; the end of term was close.

...

Two days later, he saw Salome and the Slytherin boy together – not in a fierce embrace, but talking. It was a start.

The same night, Hermione came back from the library and reported that she had spotted Malfoy and Nott discussing the contents of a small piece of parchment, presumably a letter.

"They were practically hiding in the remotest corner behind the shelves of the Charms section," she said. "When Madam Pince walked by, they instantly fell silent."

"Well," Harry muttered, reminding himself not to indulge in false hopes, "Pince has opinions about people talking in her library."

"Harry, that's not funny," Ron said in exasperation. "They could be up to something! The letter could be from Who-Know-Who, giving them orders!"

"Ron has a point," Hermione joined in. "Where did that letter come from? The only Slytherin who had mail this morning was the Chaser who got injured before the last match."

Harry frowned. "Vaisey?" he asked. "_This_ morning? From whom?"

Hermione looked at him curiously. "I have no idea. It was a school owl."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Vaisey doesn't matter much. He might pass for a decent bloke if he wasn't in Slytherin. But Malfoy-"

"Now that I think of it," Hermione interrupted him, "Vaisey also had school owls yesterday and the day before yesterday. In fact, there's been an unusual amount of mail lately that was delivered by school owls."

"You think, there's something fishy going on?" Ron asked. He seemed almost scared.

"Let's see what I can remember," Hermione said. "First, there were owls for Mandy Brocklehurst, Justin and... no, wait... Nott got the first school owl! On the morning after our detention. Afterwards, there were Mandy, Justin, Alicia, Ernie McMillan, Rhonda Highgate of Ravenclaw and her girlfriend Leticia, a boy from Ravenclaw whose name is Marco or Marcus, and Crabbe. Crabbe got a school owl the day on which he gave Millicent Bulstrode the flowers."

Harry could but marvel at Hermione's attentiveness. "And don't you have any suspicion who sends them?" he asked cautiously.

"Not yet. I haven't given that much thought so far."

"Well, they could be, er... you know, love letters," Ron said, blushing, "A lot of people suddenly seem to have girlfriends. Only the Slytherins don't fit in here."

"One of them might," Hermione said thoughtfully. "There's someone else who has received school owls for the past three days: Salome Fawcett."

Harry fought an internal battle whether or not to reveal his recent activities. Of course, his friends would never deliberately sabotage his efforts, but Ron might blab. And if Nott and Malfoy learned too soon where the mysterious letter came from, they would surely throw it straight into the next fireplace. Harry didn't want to risk that. The curiosity of the two Slytherins seemed piqued, and anything that might prevent or, at least, delay them from becoming fully functioning Death Eaters was welcome.

He decided to wait until the holidays had started before he told Ron or Hermine the truth about the letters.

"At any rate, we should keep a close eye on Malfoy and Nott," he suggested. "And on the other Slytherins as well. Perhaps we can figure out what is going on there."

Ron and Hermione agreed readily.

...

The next morning saw Malfoy and Nott sitting side by side at the breakfast table. The unexpected change at the Slytherin table drew a considerable amount of attention. However, the debates were short-lived because everybody seemed inclined to explain the new seating arrangement away with the fact that Crabbe was sitting next to a beaming Millicent Bulstrode.

Harry felt a surge of relief. The feeling almost turned into elation as he watched Salome Fawcett and Vaisey receiving letters delivered by school owls. Once they'd finished reading, both the Ravenclaw girl and the Slytherin boy looked up and smiled at each other across the room.

The unusually cheerful emotions stayed with Harry for the whole day. For the first time since Sirius's death, he was aware of the sun shining brightly and the sky being wide and blue. There was still hope in the world. And where there was hope, there was a way.

He wouldn't allow mere words to bring him down any longer. What was coming would come, and Harry would meet it when it did. The final fight could be decades or days away – he had no means of knowing – but he wasn't going to spent what time he had left in misery and apprehension. Life was precious; no hour idled away would ever come back.

In the evening, he composed a letter to Ginny.

The End


End file.
